#bluebells - Hello Poetry

I fill my lungs with purple scent enough to split my heart right open surely no other heaven could exist so gently crepe paper petals float down confetti dreamily in no rush nothing is in a rush here even the hurried bees in their swollen coats do not feel too fast everything here including the silence takes it time

0

Apr 20

Apr 20, 2026 at 7:49 AM UTC

Angharad

Bluebell season

I fill my lungs with purple scent enough to split my heart right open surely no other heaven could exist so gently crepe paper petals float down confetti dreamily in no rush nothing is in a rush here even the hurried bees in their swollen coats do not feel too fast everything here including the silence takes it time

15

Woodland of flora Tiny bells enchanting blue Perhaps fairies ring

0

Mar 4

Mar 4, 2026 at 1:19 AM UTC

Kassteel

Bluebells

Woodland of flora Tiny bells enchanting blue Perhaps fairies ring

3

Daffodils:  Little yellow trumpets that herald the coming Spring. They shyly rise above the earth until, fully grown, Then loudly proclaim That Winter has turned on its heels To give way to longer, warmer days. And when their fanfare fades away, the sweet peal of the bluebells can be heard, Drifting across the early dawn. And snowdrops smile, Knowing that Summer will soon be here.

0

Mar 8, 2025

Mar 8, 2025 at 12:16 AM UTC

thewiccaman

Daffodils

Daffodils:  Little yellow trumpets that herald the coming Spring. They shyly rise above the earth until, fully grown, Then loudly proclaim That Winter has turned on its heels To give way to longer, warmer days. And when their fanfare fades away, the sweet peal of the bluebells can be heard, Drifting across the early dawn. And snowdrops smile, Knowing that Summer will soon be here.

11

Bluebells my flower of choice, For their smell and their colour, The way they look in the rain, Waving in and out of the each other in the wind. Fluttering slightly at each supple breath, Clasping like fingertips, Palms collapsing on one another in the due, Intertwining during the morning haze in the dawn of dusk till morning as the winter fades away, Till the crisp kiss of its petals scent pronounce the end of the cycle And the bluebells fade away only to rise again next April

0

Feb 17, 2025

Feb 17, 2025 at 6:46 PM UTC

Lucas_208

Bluebells

Bluebells my flower of choice, For their smell and their colour, The way they look in the rain, Waving in and out of the each other in the wind. Fluttering slightly at each supple breath, Clasping like fingertips, Palms collapsing on one another in the due, Intertwining during the morning haze in the dawn of dusk till morning as the winter fades away, Till the crisp kiss of its petals scent pronounce the end of the cycle And the bluebells fade away only to rise again next April

10

The rows of bluebells Will still be there next spring Urging you to get better You were still there to pick them And lay them on her casket You were still there to watch The years’ dance trickle by She may have withered with The bluebells that sad spring But you’ll be there to see them Come again And again You can blossom with them every spring My dear, You’re still alive

0

Dec 17, 2019

Dec 17, 2019 at 12:39 PM UTC

starchildalice

Bluebells

The rows of bluebells Will still be there next spring Urging you to get better You were still there to pick them And lay them on her casket You were still there to watch The years’ dance trickle by She may have withered with The bluebells that sad spring But you’ll be there to see them Come again And again You can blossom with them every spring My dear, You’re still alive

15

The carpeted bluebells under the woodland canopy swaying in ecstasy to the hypnotic tunes of the morning breeze invite me to blend with them to create a new shade of Spring. Am I not privileged?

0

Sep 26, 2018

Sep 26, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC

the-mystique-trail

A new shade of Spring

The carpeted bluebells under the woodland canopy swaying in ecstasy to the hypnotic tunes of the morning breeze invite me to blend with them to create a new shade of Spring. Am I not privileged?

8

In wild, wild moments there’s the rush of wind Upon my face, streaming out strands of hair As I run down hills of mind on lissom legs, Twigs snapping under my feet while I remain Childlike and playful, blissful and unaware. But all this in my mind because I cannot do this barefoot running anymore. Can’t run at all. Those days of mad abandon gone. But I can still walk slowly on the nice neat paths Among the bluebells and my heart can still Skip, dance and jump for joy and sing its song

0

Feb 12, 2018

Feb 12, 2018 at 1:49 PM UTC

loretta-proctor

Still Dancing

In wild, wild moments there’s the rush of wind Upon my face, streaming out strands of hair As I run down hills of mind on lissom legs, Twigs snapping under my feet while I remain Childlike and playful, blissful and unaware. But all this in my mind because I cannot do this barefoot running anymore. Can’t run at all. Those days of mad abandon gone. But I can still walk slowly on the nice neat paths Among the bluebells and my heart can still Skip, dance and jump for joy and sing its song

11

yellow nights and bluebells puddles of water, deeper pools than the constant lake we muddled through sunbeams always as bright as possible torrential downpours of Zeus’s callings ever enchanted we watch as she follows curiosity growing; a wiggle in the wet! an earthquake of micro proportions she, a young god, watches diligent blank features, and the anticipation- He’s here; creeping along, thick fingers reflect drops of water and mud encasing small paws Grabbed! He is here but not for long, she a shriek of young birdsong reverberates loud enough to break the melody of a rainy afternoon each drop sings

0

Nov 6, 2017

Nov 6, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC

LadyWallflower

yellow nights and bluebells

yellow nights and bluebells puddles of water, deeper pools than the constant lake we muddled through sunbeams always as bright as possible torrential downpours of Zeus’s callings ever enchanted we watch as she follows curiosity growing; a wiggle in the wet! an earthquake of micro proportions she, a young god, watches diligent blank features, and the anticipation- He’s here; creeping along, thick fingers reflect drops of water and mud encasing small paws Grabbed! He is here but not for long, she a shriek of young birdsong reverberates loud enough to break the melody of a rainy afternoon each drop sings

20

The thing that keeps people alive Is often not some miracle cure Comprised of pills, mysterious vials of liquid, Or some new psychotherapeutic discovery, But instead lies in the simple act Of people not leaving. Leaving leads to forgetting, Forgetting leads to not caring, And, not caring, you will lose All emotional attachment to what is left. I have been saved many times by people's not leaving. I feel, however, it's only fair to note That if you, my friend, were to leave, I truly believe you'd be happy. No need to gloss it over- Just imagine, for your own sake, The dreams you could fulfil, The achievements you could make, And the places you could go Without me. If you were to leave But should return before you've forgotten, I'd like to console you by letting you know, That I probably died in peace. No need too dwell on what caused it- What difference does it really make If I succumb to depression, or cancer, Or some unknown cause in my sleep? I ask for no grand array of flowers at my funeral- Such displays are best reserved for the living. Perhaps some bluebells placed over my body though; The perfect symbol; a small array of beauty, Just enough to be noticed, achieving nothing in particular, Heads hung low, no longer able to reach, as they once did, for the sky, Epitomising the temporary fragility of life With their easily stomped on, chewed up, Beaten, and then forgotten little bodies; They're an epitaph in their own right. No other physical memorials are needed. No headstone, no need for anything To be named after me. Much easier to cry whatever tears Need to be cried at that point, And leave. If you find the emotional attachment doesn't fade, And you really feel you need some thing, Some physical presence to remind you of me, *Then for god's sake don't make it something That dresses me up as some kind of plaster saint!* Instead choose something more meaningful and lasting Like a cardboard box, Or the smell of paint.

0

Jul 23, 2016

Jul 23, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC

nigel-finn

If You Were To Leave

The thing that keeps people alive Is often not some miracle cure Comprised of pills, mysterious vials of liquid, Or some new psychotherapeutic discovery, But instead lies in the simple act Of people not leaving. Leaving leads to forgetting, Forgetting leads to not caring, And, not caring, you will lose All emotional attachment to what is left. I have been saved many times by people's not leaving. I feel, however, it's only fair to note That if you, my friend, were to leave, I truly believe you'd be happy. No need to gloss it over- Just imagine, for your own sake, The dreams you could fulfil, The achievements you could make, And the places you could go Without me. If you were to leave But should return before you've forgotten, I'd like to console you by letting you know, That I probably died in peace. No need too dwell on what caused it- What difference does it really make If I succumb to depression, or cancer, Or some unknown cause in my sleep? I ask for no grand array of flowers at my funeral- Such displays are best reserved for the living. Perhaps some bluebells placed over my body though; The perfect symbol; a small array of beauty, Just enough to be noticed, achieving nothing in particular, Heads hung low, no longer able to reach, as they once did, for the sky, Epitomising the temporary fragility of life With their easily stomped on, chewed up, Beaten, and then forgotten little bodies; They're an epitaph in their own right. No other physical memorials are needed. No headstone, no need for anything To be named after me. Much easier to cry whatever tears Need to be cried at that point, And leave. If you find the emotional attachment doesn't fade, And you really feel you need some thing, Some physical presence to remind you of me, *Then for god's sake don't make it something That dresses me up as some kind of plaster saint!* Instead choose something more meaningful and lasting Like a cardboard box, Or the smell of paint.

52

early dawn rises bluebells elegantly chime breeze awakes petals

0

May 4, 2015

May 4, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC

poetic-t

[early dawn rises] haiku

early dawn rises bluebells elegantly chime breeze awakes petals

3

Spend time with me by the bluebells. They look so beautiful, Just as you do and should know. I want to be with you by bluebells. I want us to look beautiful together, Just like bluebells do. I really do love bluebells. They come with childhood memories. So walk with me through the bluebells. I wish you could see their beauty in me.

0

Apr 24, 2015

Apr 24, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC

Chloes-Not-An-Ange

Bluebells

Spend time with me by the bluebells. They look so beautiful, Just as you do and should know. I want to be with you by bluebells. I want us to look beautiful together, Just like bluebells do. I really do love bluebells. They come with childhood memories. So walk with me through the bluebells. I wish you could see their beauty in me.

10

The purple haze of heather had dwindled in the sunshine. Bluebells were breaking too, their florets a flutter. Smoggy incense rolls in off the horizon smoking over the crumbled mountaintops, their peaks unable to break the surf.

0

May 15, 2014

May 15, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC

Misser

Stifled spring

The purple haze of heather had dwindled in the sunshine. Bluebells were breaking too, their florets a flutter. Smoggy incense rolls in off the horizon smoking over the crumbled mountaintops, their peaks unable to break the surf.

9

It's 5:11am. A pretty time. The street lights outside, in my dipped valley lane, glow orange against the soft, warm, gloomy shades of morn. The pretty pitter-patter of rain I can hear on the roof is adorning the bluebells in crystals which will twinkle when the wild wide world wakes.

0

Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC

Misser

5:11am

It's 5:11am. A pretty time. The street lights outside, in my dipped valley lane, glow orange against the soft, warm, gloomy shades of morn. The pretty pitter-patter of rain I can hear on the roof is adorning the bluebells in crystals which will twinkle when the wild wide world wakes.

5

Blueberry bluebells sing, imperceptibly sighing against a backdrop of quiet cerulean. You know it is Spring when their hazy grasses sprout beautifully thick in the blades between the primrose, and when the sun infuses shafts of bronze to the lilac through the giant ash's baby leaves.

0

Apr 16, 2014

Apr 16, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC

Misser

Spring x2

Blueberry bluebells sing, imperceptibly sighing against a backdrop of quiet cerulean. You know it is Spring when their hazy grasses sprout beautifully thick in the blades between the primrose, and when the sun infuses shafts of bronze to the lilac through the giant ash's baby leaves.

17